


Drag Me to Hell

by TheEclecticEccentric



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Branding, Demonic Possession, Developing Friendships, Established Relationship, Harming a Child, M/M, Multi, Torture, psychological abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-09-26 06:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20385421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEclecticEccentric/pseuds/TheEclecticEccentric
Summary: God created the world in seven days. Adam Young's was destroyed in one.With Heaven and Hell working together to restart the apocalypse, Crowley and Azirapahle must work together to protect the Antichrist and prevent another war.





	1. A Cry for Help

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ko-drabbles](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ko-drabbles).

Crowley lounged on the couch in the shops backroom, idly staring at an old favourite, as relaxed as a coiled snake in a patch of sunshine; or that was the impression he wished to give. Aziraphale felt his serpentine eyes on his back as the angel busied himself about the shelves, brandishing a pink feather duster at any spec that dared to approach his precious books.

“My dearest,” the angel finally said, trying to sound stern even as a bashful smile grew on his face, “your look is somewhat disconcerting.”

“How, angel?” Crowley drawled, his sardonic tone belying the heat in his eyes.

“You look like you want to devour me.”

“Oh now you’re the one doing the tempting,” the demon replied with a flirtatious smirk, “prodding my perfectly innocent desire for entertainment in that direction.”

“I am doing nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale protested primly, the next step in their coy little dance, his heart starting to flutter, “I am merely cleaning.”

Crowley’s smirk grew wider, more seductive as he slithered to his feet, pulling the angels eyes unwillingly (he would insist) down his lithe form.

The air changed.

Both beings froze, sensing it immediately. Crowley began to sniff the air, twisting his head to find the source as Aziraphale extended his Grace reflexively.

A foul smell of sulphur made the angel flinch even as Crowley’s eyes were abruptly drawn to the bookshelf by the window. Aziraphale followed his gaze, his stomach dropping in shock as his newest books, the children’s sections, began to tremble. Their backs split open, the spines contorted and thick, viscous black ooze, not unlike Pollutions taint, began to spill from their pages like blood.

With a cry, Aziraphale instinctively went for them as Crowley went for him. His demon threw himself on him at full force, knocking them both to the ground as the books exploded with far more force then any bound pages and leather had a right to. The demon kept him pinned to the floor as all around them a cacophony grew. Bookshelves splintered and cracked down the middle, books tore themselves asunder, knickknacks and lamps threw themselves in all directions, raining shards down upon them. The air turned oppressive and sickening, lodging in their throats as the very ground beneath them shook violently.

Crowley yelled in pain, clutching at his own chest even as he held Aziraphale down.

“What’s happening?! What’s wrong?!” the angel demanded, dislodging Crowley and bringing them both to their feet in an instant, holding the demon up on the trembling ground as he bent double, still gasping in agony.

“I don’t know!” Crowley howled, clawing at Azirapahle’s shoulder for support as they struggled towards the exit. “It feels like then – like Him – ”

“Who?!”

“HIM! _Satan!_ But its – but it’s _not_ – "

He cut himself off with a scream of pure anguish, launching himself away from Aziraphale’s grip and slamming his side into the brick wall with enough force to dent it. Azirapahle was right behind him, barely noticing the falling ceramic bust missing his skull by millimetre’s as he pulled his lover to him, cupping his contorted face and spreading his fingers about his skin. Heedless of the carnage befalling his beloved shop, he forced his Grace to mingle with Crowley’s infernal energy, hoping to soothe, trying to seek out the source.

Their eyes snapped open in unison as they both said, “Adam.”

And they were gone.

***

They arrived, still holding each other, in a picturesque wood. It was a beautiful scene with lush greenery, tall trees and wide spaces, the distant trickle of a nearby stream calling out promises. The perfect set for childhood and all its adventures.

The screams of pure torment were not however.

The celestial beings were at the boys side in an instant. Adam Young lay upon the ground, thrashing and bellowing as if he were being eaten alive by wild dogs. His head was thrown back so hard his neck strained red with bulging veins, his mouth opened too wide in a scream no mortal should make. His eyes, flying open to see them, were red and black, glowing and inhuman.

His hellhound/lovable pet was barking wildly, jumping all over the boy in a futile attempt to save his master from the unseen force, a truly infernal rumble starting in its throat as, for the first time since its service to its master, it wanted to hurt something.

“What’s happening to him?” Azirphale demanded, as the couple threw themselves on their knees at the boys side. The angel reached out instinctively only to yank his hands back, the skin burned like touching a hot stove just from the air suspended above Adam.

“NO!” Crowley yelled, his face twisted in fury as he seized Adams head with both hands and tried to steady it. “Leave him alone, you evil _piece of shit_!”

Adams head twisted at an impossible angle, a hideous grin marring his young face. “Crowley the traitor,” he mocked in a voice that wasn’t his own.

“Beelzebub!” Aziraphale gasped.

The Antichrist snapped his head up to look past Crowley, opened his mouth wide and threw up black bile. What would have hit the angel dead centre in the face instead splashed onto Crowley’s arm as he jerked sideways, pushing Aziraphale back. He flinched as the substance sizzled on his arm through his jacket, still relieved that it had been him despite the discomfort. He didn’t want to know what it would do to an angel but it would probably be unpleasant.

“Exorcise him!” Crowley shouted. “Get her out!”

Azirphale didn’t hesitate. He called on every bit of Grace he possessed, his human form glowing ethereally and when he spoke it echoed with an eternal power. The Prince of Hell, using Adams face, flinched a little but did not relent her assault on the child.

“I, Aziraphale, Principality of Heaven, command thee, return to Hell!”

Pushing through the pain, Aziraphale slammed both hands down on Adams chest, right over his heart. Both Antichrist and Prince of Hell roared, pained and angry, a prolonged scream that made humans for miles around freeze in place in primal fear of something they could sense but not hear.

Still, the demon did not relent, clawing at Adams souls as she tried to keep her grip. “Submit, boy!” she ordered, voice buzzing like a plague of flies, “You will obey your destiny!”

“By the power granted me by the Grace of God, I command thee!" Azirphale bellowed, calling upon a power he had long since left behind. "_Begone_!”

Crowley’s hand had seized his shoulder and _pushed_. With the combination of both ethereal and occult energies, the higher demon was banished at last, scorching the ground and the child’s skin with a force of her exit. Adams eyes, filled with tears of pain and terror, reassuringly human, darted over them for several breathless seconds as his clothes smouldered, limbs limp. Then his head lolled back and he saw no more.

“Fainted,” Aziraphale said, now able to touch the boys face gently, “And no wonder, poor lad.”

“We need to get him out of here,” Crowley, yellow eyes seeking out unseen threats in the distant woods. “_Now_.”


	2. The Mark of the Beast

Everything hurt.

Adam squeezed his eyes shut, his mouth screwing up in a grimace as he tried his hardest not to move. His back felt like it had taken a beating with red-hot pokers, blood was in his mouth and his head would not stop pounding. The world swam sickeningly as he finally forced himself to look around.

A surge of panic nearly toppled him off the plushy unfamiliar sofa he had been laid upon, jerking his head frantically until the urge to vomit made him still. The room was dark, light being blocked out by the rows and rows of bookshelves spreading out around him in a maze, making it impossible to see the way out – if there was a way out.

The boy shifted his legs to try and sit up. He cried out in pain as he pulled on his seared skin, the coffee table he hadn’t noticed in front of him flipping itself up into the air with the force of his anguish. It hit the bookcase directly opposite him and brought the whole lot crashing down in a thunderous cacophony, the sound vibrating around his pounding head.

Frantic barking reached his ears and within seconds, Dog appeared, leaping over the rements of wood, paper and leather to lunge for his master. Adam let out a desperate sob as his back hit the cushions too hard, a twisted mix of agony and relief as he clutched his pet closer to him.

“Get down, mutt! _Down_, bless it! _Off of him_!”

His eyes were too watery to focus properly, but he recognised the black silhouette coming towards him.

“You . . .? You’re the man, from the airbase!” Adam said, recoiling as far as possible as the man reached for him, his black sunglasses obscuring his inhuman eyes.

“Demon, boy – _don’t_ do that! You’ll hurt yourself even more.”

“I didn’t hurt myself,” Adam scowled indignantly, even as he let the demon place his hands on his arms and ease him forwards, away from the cushions. “That monster did.”

“I know,” the demon said, frowning severely as he looked down at Adam’s back, as if he could see the wounds through his jacket. Maybe he could. “I know, Adam.”

“Terribly sorry, dear boy,” and there was the other man, the one all in white, standing at his friends shoulder and peering down, flapping his hands about. “We thought it best to put up protection before we tried to heal you. Don’t you fret now, we’ll sort it in a tick.”

“Protection?” Adam gasped as the two of them manhandled him – as gently as possible but hellfire hurts – into a standing position and guided him over to the mess he had made. The man in white made a funny whimpering noise but determinedly did not look at the broken books as they walked the child around.

“Warding sigils. It was a bugger to balance out anti-Hell and anti-Heaven spells but we made it work,” the demon remarked, taking most of Adam’s weight as his companion ran towards a strange set of symbols drawn in white chalk on the floor, the red carpet rolled up beside it out of the way. “You sure this’ll work, angel?”

“I hope so, I mean, he is of Hell technically, being half-Satan but he isn’t evil because otherwise the hellfire wouldn’t have hurt him in the first place, so really . . .”

“What’s going on?” Adam demanded, freezing on the spot despite the demons insistent pulls to his arm.

Quickly enough, the man in black gave up that tactic and instead came to stand in front of him, crouching down so he was looking up into Adam’s face. “Adam, you were burnt with hellfire when Beelzebub was exorcised from you – hellfire isn’t ordinary, it leaves a dangerous mark, one we have to get off you as soon as possible.”

“I’m sorry, lad,” the other man interjected, staring at him with obvious sadness and worry, “There’s never been someone like you before so we don’t know . . . we don’t know if this will work – ”

“Angel,” his friend said sharply.

“We can’t lie to him, Crowley! He needs to trust us.”

“What’s wrong?” Adam asked, voice shaking and barely audible with a fear he didn’t understand.

“This is our best chance to help you, maybe our only chance. But it could also make it worse,” Mr Crowley said, not breaking eye-contact even if he did hesitate a little as he said, “It could kill you.”

Adam flinched away.

_Strike them down. They want to hurt you. They’re not your friends . . ._

He closed his eyes again, squeezing them shut tight to try and drown out the voices. When he opened them again, the angel and the demon were looking at him unhappily, waiting, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. Dog growled lowly, still clasped in his master’s arms.

The boy swallowed heavily, his back still burning. “What do I have to do?”

“Step inside the circle, willingly. We will do the rest.”

“You must not step out again,” Mr Crowley stated lowly, “No matter what. Not until we say its safe. Got it?”

Adam nodded mutely, unable to speak. Slowly, his body screaming in protest, he bent to lower Dog to the ground, then stood back to his full height and walked. Although only five steps, it felt like a mile and the last one was closer to a hop, trying to throw all of himself inside the buzzing, crackling circle before he could change his mind.

For a moment, nothing happened.

And then he screamed. He threw his head back, eyes solid red and screamed and howled and shrieked the circle glowed like the sun, burning twice as hot. But it wasn’t the circle, it was his own back, the hellfire bursting back to life, spreading to consume him. His bones seared and surely blackened inside his body and the smell of cooking meat seared his nostrils.

“Stay inside the circle!” Mr Crowley yelled, stepping as close to the ethereal barrier as he dared. “Don’t try to get out or you’ll die! Angel! _Hurry it up_!”

The angel didn’t answer, on his knees, eyes closed, chanting feverously, as if in enraptured prayer while Adam sobbed and cried and howled and begged to let it all end, let it stop, he was just a kid, please, please, stop . . .

***

The next time he woke up, he was wrapped in pyjamas that weren’t his own, on a couch that didn’t belong in his house, with two adults on either side of him who weren’t his parents. The angel noticed his stirring first and leapt to his feet, dropping a large book heavily on the repaired coffee table. A hand went to Adam’s forehead, the other to his shoulder, gently urging him to lay back down.

“Hush now, Adam, all is well, your wound has been healed.”

“Well, mostly,” came a sardonic voice from behind the angels back.

“There is a cursed mark on your back but we have stayed its power with a celestial brand. As long as you keep your infernal abilities in check until we can rid you off it for good, you will be fine.”

Adam frowned softly, shifting himself gingerly as he realised he could indeed move with no pain, “You mean, not use them at all?”

“No, just control them, that’s all,” the angel smiled with genuine benevolence and pulled away, “Would you like some cocoa? It’s fresh.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” the Antichrist said, sitting up slowly just in case. A smile came to unbidden to him when Dog leapt up from his spot on the rug and climbed over his master’s lap, vibrating with anxiety and trying to get closer.

The three of them sat in silence for a long moment, Adam and the angel sipping at their cocoa while the demon watched them closely. He was the first one to break the silence.

“We need to talk about what happened. How did Beelzebub end up possessing you at all, for Sa – for Somebody’s sake?”

“I don’t know. Its all – gone. The whole day,” Adams eyes widened and he leapt to his feet, his remaining cocoa sloshing dangerously. “It’s night?! Dad is gonna be so mad at me –!”

“Hush,” the angel soothed, standing up to place soft hands on his shoulders, “Your parents believe you are camping in the woods by your house with your friends – a quick miracle of ours. They’re not expecting you back until tomorrow. Tonight, we will keep you safe.”

“I _was_ camping with my friends,” Adam remembered with a thrill of pure horror. “Where are they?! What did that _thing do_ – ?!”

“All safe and sound in their beds, called home early by their parents, much to their annoyance,” Crowley drawled, still giving Adam that piercing stare he could feel even behind the demons black lenses. “Probably just teleported away when she got you.”

Adam sighed in relief, collapsing back onto the sofa, a shaky smile making its way onto his face. Over his head, the angel and demon shared a look, both reluctant to be the one to broach the subject.

“Adam,” Crowley finally said, “You know you can’t go back there, right?”

It took a moment for that to sink in. The boy raised his head, blinking owlishly at the demon. “What are you taling about? I have to go back – my mum and dad – my friends –”

“Are in terrible danger if you return,” Crowley said bluntly, his face drawn in unhappiness. He wanted to be kind, but this was the only way. “That brand will keep them out of you but possession isn't their only party trick. I know demons and the forces of Hell will not hesitate to torture your family and your friends and your dog and teachers and the man who sells you ice cream to get what they want. You want to keep them safe? You stay away.”

“Not forever,” Aziraphale hastened to interrupt as Adams face paled, overwhelmed. “Just until we can figure out what to do.”

“Why are they doing this?” Adam demanded, trembling.

“To restart to Apocalypse. They can’t do it without you, unfortunately, so our priority is to keep you safe.”

“We’re making arrangements,” Crowley said, rather too business-like for the situation, “a transfer, if you like. A safe place to ward Heaven and Hell off of the scent, give us some time and breathing room to figure out how to shut this down once and for all.”

“We will be at your side constantly,” the angel promised, sitting next to Adam on the couch and looking at him with something close to pity, “we will protect you with our lives. I am sorry that such a burden has been placed on you, Adam, but we must ask you to trust us or else . . . I fear the alternative.”

“. . . Do I have a choice?” Adam asked, fingers winding tightly in Dogs fur, clinging to the animal, the only solid familiarity he had.

“No. Well, I suppose you do, you _always_ have a choice,” Crowley said, lounging back in his conjured armchair with an air of forced nonchalance, “Its more a question of if you can live with the consequences of making the wrong one, isn’t it?”

The silence that descended was suffocating, the kind that presses on your ears and tries to force its way down your throat, finally interrupted when the exhaustion of the day hit Adam and he began to cry. He cried and clung to Dog, barely feeling the angel embrace him and distantly aware of the Other part of him, the Adversary, with its deeper understanding of Everything, raging internally at the hand fate had dealt them.


	3. The Other Players

Beelzebub cursed furiously, holding her arms in the infernal fire, trying to soothe the aches and pains of exorcism. A priest is bad enough but an angel? Agony.

“How did _Aziraphale_ force _you_ out?” a snide voice demanded disbelievingly.

The demon sneered, keeping watch at the emerging figure out of the corner of her eye, “Remind me which one of you got entrusted with a flaming sword again?”

A muscle twitched in Gabriel’s jaw as he stepped as far into the light as he could, nose crinkled against the foul smell of the dark halls. “Point taken. More importantly, what do we do now? Can’t your master – ?”

“No. The brat severed the bond between them and attempting it could kill them both. No Satan, no Antichrist, no war. Why don’t you take a crack at it?” Beelzebub demanded, pulling her limbs at last from the hellfire and inspecting the damage. Scars had appeared in blotches on her skin, as if someone had sprayed Holy Water on it; not her worst injury by far but more than she was expecting from an exorcism.

“Possession is your sides specialty. I doubt any angel knows how to do it properly,” he said the words reluctantly, hating to admit that the Heavenly host lacked an ability the Hellish owned, no matter what it was.

The two lapsed into silence, eyeing each other up discreetly as they mulled the matter over.

“Any news on the traitors?” Gabriel finally said.

“You first.”

“Fine. I received a report that that cursed bookshop is plastered over with warding sigils for both sides. I would bet anything they’re involving themselves again.”

“We can’t take them on with no way to kill them,” Beelzebub sneered, more at the situation than the present company. “And torture would be useless without an endgame. As irritating as it is, we may need to try a stealthier approach.”

“What approach?”

The demon said nothing for a minute. Then a smile, cold and calculating with far too much teeth, stretched over her half-rotten face. The Archangel shivered despite himself, observing the change with interest.

“Temptation. My reports said that the boy was using his powers to nefarious ends when he first discovered them, before whatever the Heaven it was that made him forsake us.”

“You think you could talk him round?” Gabriel snorted, “We tried that, remember? Colossal failure.”

“We were too blunt. We need to get inside his head, so he doesn't know it’s us, make him think it’s all his own idea. Put him in position where he will _want_ to use his powers, to change, to hurt. The more he feel it, the more he’ll give in, the more he’ll _want_ to give in,” Beelzebub explained with relish.

“Corruption? . . . It could work. But there’s still the traitors to consider – they took charge of that other ones upbringing in the same way, if I recall. They could be on the lookout for this. We have to find the boy and get inside his head without them realising.”

Beelzebub craned her head at an unnatural angle to look up at him, dark eyes flashing with psychotic glee. “That’ll be your job then, featherbrain. Find the boy so I can warp him. piece by piece.”

***

Two dozen miles away from central London is a school. Not your average boxy-uniforms and plasticky packed-lunch affair but what people with more money than sense would call an “elite” school. Dormitories with two boys to a room purely to encourage “camaraderie” (in other words, making connections their parents could use to make more money) decked out with ridiculously expensive ugly décor and enough top of the range technology to short-circuit the nearby city.

It is in this alien location that Deirdre and Arthur Young feel extremely out of place as they escort their only son, just offered a scholarship out of the blue for his “creativity and perception”. They bluster in their own ways, trying to make it less obvious how inadequate they feel. Deirdre pushes homemade sandwiches into Adams hands and tries in vain to smooth his wayward curls, Arthur wrestles Dog back towards the car whilst warbling uncertain advice years out of date. They both hug him tight, they both promise to check up on him next weekend, both insist on a phone call the next night. Both of them fight down the feeling that this is wrong, that they can’t leave their unusually silent and pale child here. It’s just a change, that’s all, he’s already a little homesick but that's alright, they’re doing what's best for him, this is a marvellous opportunity.

Right?

Far away and right beside Adam as he mutely walks behind a staff member leading him on an unenthusiastic tour, somebody else sees an opportunity. Watching, they smile to themselves and shuffle pieces on the board, shifting the universe about the way one straightened the crooked leaves on the plant and makes a coaster more symmetrical to the lines of a table. Out of the depths of time and space, this being summons another player, one who does not know he is playing even though he has from the moment of his birth, to this, the next round.

“And this will be your room,” the staff member says, leading Adam to the sixth room on the third floor, “Your roommate has been here for a number of weeks already, so please be courteous in arranging your personal affects, limit of five significant objects to a desk and two wall pieces each.”

“Okay,” Adam said apathetically, not raising his eyes from the blank space ahead of him.

The staff member humphed in disapproval, then rapped smartly on the door, waiting only a few seconds before walking in.

“Good evening. This is your new roommate, Adam Young. Mr Young, meet Warlock Downling.”


End file.
